


I'm here to listen with glee how you butcher my name

by depresane



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Arguing, Attempt at Humor, Fantastic Racism, Fictional politics, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Protests, Windhelm, no violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-01-20 14:50:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12435087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/depresane/pseuds/depresane
Summary: A short story (work in progress) about an Argonian moving in to Skyrim. They have a plan. And Nords will witness it.





	1. Chapter 1

A thick book was laid open on a wooden desk. A man with a long moustache sat on a chair and shuffled his feet, rubbing his boots against a blue carpet. He locked his eyes on a window; tiny fluffs of snow greeted him with a gentle dance.  
It was quiet at that moment. Merchants haven’t left their houses yet. No one cried in shock. No one begged for coins.  
Then, the front door opened and a person took a peek, leaning out.  
Being a Nord with a skin as fair as raw salmon, he assumed the person would also be a Nord with salmon skin. The impact of reality made him crook his lips subconsciously, and the person noticed that without a comment.  
“Am I too early, sir?,” asked the person from behind the door, with an accent the man didn’t expect to hear from an Argonian.  
“No. ‘Tis my duty hour. Come in.”  
The man bent forward to examine the Argonian from tip to toe. Fully armoured, they wore a crimson linen scarf with a round clip, and a headgear which was a combination of a helmet and a stand-alone fur hood. Two slightly curved horns grew from convenient holes of the headgear. Their steel sabatons contrasted with the dirty yellow sheen of the Elven armour; they also stood out due to their customized shape. The Argonian took their head protection off, revealing two horn-rings with short, deep green pieces of drapery hanging loosely. Their scaled skin brown; their eyes as bright as amber; their scar long and thin, underlining their left eye and highlighting their cheekbone. “A fearsome creature,” thought the man.  
“I was told I would find the city steward somewhere around here…”  
“You’ve found him, dear… madam?”  
“Splendid. I would like to register in this city’s census and purchase a house.”  
“I see. Now, the Argonians of Windhelm live outside the city walls at their Assemblage, close to fresh waters…”  
“So I realized. Sir, I desire to purchase a fully furnished house with a functioning well and a private bathroom. I shall not settle for anything else.”  
Their tone wasn’t imperative or whiny. This Argonian had calculated their chances in advance, and arrived with a clear, specific objective. Calm body language, including their tail; moderate pace of their speech; no weapons under their belt; face fully visible.  
The steward had to take his hat off, “Well, there is one… expensive house with all those commodities you, huh?”  
The Argonian started unpacking their sachet: one sack rang upon falling on the desk; the second one flattened on the first one like a hamster; the third one jingled; the fourth one made the man go pale. They kept appearing. They covered the whole desk. They fell off the furniture. The pile grew and grew like botched yeast, casting a shadow on him. Even when the Argonian stopped, the sacks seemed to be increasing in quantity.  
“Five and twenty thousand septims. If you trust my words, sir.”  
They knew he didn’t. He had to weigh the sacks and count the coins. But the steward had a trick, as he gracefully snatched two coins from the first sack he picked up and hid them in a pocket. He counted the first hundred of coins manually, one by one, showing them to the Argonian. When he was done, he spoke:  
“Two septims are missing in this sack.”  
“Ah, my apologies. Here.”  
Oh, no. One more sack jumped out of the sachet. The Argonian laid two more coins on the pile as if they were placing a pawn in a strategy board game.  
The steward saw an opportunity: “I could tell her over and over that the sacks lack one coin or two. I could exploit their riches that way.” However, a fear struck him, “But then, if she has even _more_ money prepared… Where will I hide my taken septims? I could run out of space in all my pockets, drawers, the chair… No, no no no no, I’m not ready for this.”  
His hands started shaking and sweating; they dropped a coin from time to time. He couldn’t see clearly because of more sweat squirting from his forehead. His fancy clothes clung to his chest, compressing his lungs.  
A weapon that can’t hit anywhere becomes a disadvantage.  
“Actually, um, I don’t think I have to houn- count the money right now, if I fffih-find any shortage, I will simply pay you a visit. Now, allow me to shove those aside and get my book from beneath.”  
“Certainly,” the Argonian nodded once.  
The pile of money turned out to weigh too much for his nervous push. “Could you?”  
“Aye,” they swiped the pile away, despite the sacks falling around their elbow and burying their forearm. Of course they succeeded. The steward just acknowledged that, removed five more sacks, and picked up the book. Then, he opened a drawer and prepared his quill.  
“So, your name, madam?”  
“I’m spelling it out: P, W, Y…,” they had to pause.  
The steward only managed to write the initial letter. When he heard the second one, his mind went blank and his hand followed. He extended the line of the letter instead of raising the quill; the line continued through the margin of the page until the device hit the desk.  
“Sir?”  
“I’m sorry. P and W. Next?”  
“Y, double S, F, Y, X, Y, L.”  
He managed, “Mmhmmm, and how do I pronounce it?”  
“P uhwiss-FIX-ill.”  
“Are you…? No, do you _accept_ the _role_ of a _madam_ in our society?,” he sounded extremely unnatural. Pwyssfyxyl deduced he wouldn’t have spoken that way to a Nord woman.  
“I guess I do.”  
“Mhm,” he noted down, “Your father’s name?”  
“Unknown.”  
“Oh?”  
“He donated his seed to my mother.”  
He wanted to ask for a broader explanation, but then he thought about the septims he had to count that day and gave up. “Mother’s name, then.”  
“Pwyssfyxyl.”  
“What.”  
“It became a tradition in our lineage to name all children after our ancestor, Pwyssfyxyl the Nerevarine.”  
He lowered his head and simply wrote it all down. “Previous citizenship?”  
“Morrowind.”  
He tossed the quill. “Morro- Wait, how did you all end up innnnn, oh, THAT Nerevarine!? Oh!,” he snapped from realization, “OH! Marvelous! The descendant of the infamous criminal who saved Morrowind! And now you’re here!”  
“Sir?”  
“I’m listening!”  
“The Nerevarine was a political prisoner. She disobeyed the Empire.”  
“Really now!”  
“Sir, change your tone this instant. I’ve done no harm to you, so I do _not_ deserve to be demonized like this.”  
He thought, “But the coins!,” listened to his own thoughts, admitted that sounded ridiculous, and backed off. “Sincere apologies, madam.”  
“Thank you. I’ve brought the documents necessary from Argonia, Cyrodiil, and Morrowind, all translated. They confirm my ancestor’s history and my own.”  
“Mhmmh. Keep them. Former citizen of Morrowind. I’m noting,” he did as he said, “Reason of migration?”  
“Personal. And it’s very likely going to be an _im_ migration.”  
“Mhmmm. Have you finished any school?”  
“Not per se.”  
“Your profession, then?”  
“I have many. A blacksmith, taught by Aryne Telnim. A priestess of Azura, taught at the Holamayan Monastery. An enchanter…”  
“Thank you, these three suffice,” he rotated the book and lent them the quill, “Please sign at the bottom.”  
They took their time, writing their name with calligraphic precision and attention to details. Naturally, they used the Daedric alphabet. The steward picked up a stamp from the drawer, carefully poured ink onto it and pressed it against the page.  
He announced with a defeated voice, “Welcome to Windhelm. I shall show you to your new house.”  
Pwyssfyxyl smiled. The first step has been made.


	2. Chapter 2

Noon hasn’t even started yet, and Windhelm streets were flooded with Argonian citizens carrying their beds. Naturally, guards had to react.  
“What is this supposed to mean?,” asked one soldier.  
An Argonian replied, “We’re here to pay our Venerated One a visit.”  
“With beds.”  
“We plan to get drunk and stay over.”  
“Just get a bed roll.”  
“Not a single store has one.”  
“Nonsense. Nepja, confiscate the beds.”  
A female guard’s mouth grew long, “All of them?”  
“I mean, call others to help you. I’ll be stopping the Argonians.”  
Soon, the Candlehearth Square was crowded with Argonian citizens, Nords guards, and beds.  
The soldier who initiated the halt had to run to the gate, “Stop letting them through!,” they yelled.  
“But they’re clogging the bridge!,” answered the gatekeeper.  
“And they’re clogging the Square! For the love of…,” they peeked from between the gate’s wings, “No. They can’t be all from the Assemblage. Ask them for the papers!”  
“Aye!”  
The soldier returned to the Argonian crowd and Nepja. She just started the confiscation procedure, which entailed writing a detailed report for each bed and its owner.  
“Maybe they’re protesting,” they suggested.  
She froze. “We don’t have enough units for that.”  
“For mere citizens? I’d say we need fifty more men.”  
Nepja twisted her lips in disbelief and turned to the Argonian, tapping a charcoal stick against paper, “Are you protesting?”  
“No. Why would we?”  
“No asking back. Is this a protest?”  
“No.”  
She glanced at the colleague.  
They shook their head, “The very fact that they’re standing here is an act of protest. And because they’re denying… it’s definitely true.”  
“I don’t know, they’re not committing any crime…”  
“There’s no ‘I don’t know’, Nepja. We’re guarding the High King and each word of his is law. Keep confiscating, I’ll call…,” they turned around and counted the Argonians, “What in the Oblivion…?”  
The gatekeeper jumped upon seeing the soldier again.  
“What did I just told you!,” their grammar tripped.  
“They _had_ the papers; I let them in!”  
“What!,” they looked away and took a shallow breath, “They must be forgeries! There are only seventeen registered Argonians!”  
“I swear on my head they’re legit!,” they waved their open hand near their cheek.  
“Check the dates! If they’ve been sealed today…”  
“So far, none’s been!”  
“None’s…,” they pressed their fingers against their helmet, “I have to think… What are the dates, then?”  
The gatekeeper just threw his hands upwards, “Various.”  
“For the love… Examples!”  
“Twelfth Sun’s Dawn, ninth Frost Fall… Rain’s Hand… Please, lad.”

By the time the soldier reached the Palace several Argonians could be spotted sitting atop a certain roof…  
“We need crowd forces.”  
Galmar frowned, “You are the crowd forces. There’s no one else.”  
“Excuse me? Where’s the Fiftig?”  
“They’ve been sent to Winterhold in emergency.”  
They tilted their head, “Just now? This morning?”  
“Before dawn. Inform Wuunferth. May he paralyze the mob.”

The gatekeeper sought support against the grey wall as a Khajiit emerged from the mixture of red, brown, green, and sand yellow colours. She was carrying a compact, foldable bed on her back.  
“Layl-Qatra greets you, guardian of the gate.”  
They were tempted to take their gloves off, “How. Can I help. You.”  
“Layl-Qatra wishes to pay a visit to the descendant of the Nerevarine. Those ones are accompanying Layl-Qatra.”  
“Who are…?,” they didn’t have to finish the question: another Khajiit hopped closer in excitement. She was jumping above the Argonian heads and wiping her mouth from time to time.  
“Qutayra, Tayr, Sweetie, is this the place?”  
“This is the gate to the place.”  
“What a gorgeous gate! When can we go in?”  
Layl-Qatra smiled, “I don’t know. Guardian, when can Anf-Buq’a go in?”  
“Well, um… we’re having an unusual situation here. All these Argonians claim to be registered to our Assemblage, when it’s… technically impossible due to _spatial_ limitations of the facility.”  
“These ones may be registered for goods stamps. The Khajiit also organize goods stamps.”  
The gatekeeper stood for five solid seconds, expressionless and thoughtless. “Goods stamps. The High King would know. The guards would know. But we don’t. How can I belie- -”  
Out of nowhere, four more Khajiit citizens walked in with their own portable wooden beds. That the Argonians kept pouring in should be known without any further description.  
The gatekeeper waved a hand in two circular movements; another guardian came closer.  
“Oyli, ask that furious guard about the stamps. And bring me a chair.”

Oyli came across their colleague on the stairs leading to the Palace; Wuunferth followed them.  
“Do the Argonians have goods stamps?,” asked Oyli.  
The soldier froze like a statue.  
“Do they… register to the Assemblage for stamps? You know anything?”  
“All I know… The Assemblage shares tents, beds, medicine… common books… with homeless or unemployed Argonians. But they didn’t reveal any details. Definitely not a word about stamps. Fffhhh… Who told you about stamps?”  
“A Khajiit.”  
“They’re lying. They all do. Wait…”  
Now the crowd contained a majority of Argonians, a one fifth of the Khajiit, and the Dunmer. Citizens of various Skyrim cities, including Windhelm. Beds of various artisans.  
The guard grabbed their helmet, pulled it upwards, and tossed it to the pavement, where it bounced off and hit against Oyli’s gauntlet.  
“Oi, chill, fellow!”  
“How am I supposed to chill!,” they snapped, “And you, mage! What are you waiting for!? Paralyze them!”  
The man was staring at the crowd calmly, “She’s with them.”  
“Who now!”  
“You know. Hiss-Fix.”


End file.
